Part 22 (1/2)
”In the East, a woman's pleasure is also highly regarded. The nail is grown to further that regard.”
How did a nail help a woman's regard? She could not pa.r.s.e the sentence. No, the woman was not regarded, her pleasure was. She remained silent, hoping he would expand upon the point, but concisely. If he could conclude his disquisition in one short sentence, it would be preferable to this gradual seeping revelation. ”Further” suggested distance, and she was certain he was speaking of something requiring closeness, something he couldn't demonstrate.
”Another lovely one.” He placed a reddish-brown sh.e.l.l that resembled a turkey's wing in her hand.
”'Further'? I mean, please explain 'further.'”
”Dear Rossignol.” His voice dropped and his eyes grew soft. ”I shall say it plain. The nail is used to stroke that part of a woman's body that is the center of her pleasure. I've been told married men take pride in that nail. So do their wives. When you think about it, the nail is a public declaration of mutual devotion. A carte d'amitie.”
”A valentine?”
”Oui.”
The center of her pleasure. She was blus.h.i.+ng, but she didn't care. Her curiosity, always the source of her boldness, trumped any discomfort. She hesitated over a huge orange scallop. ”I don't quite understand,” she said softly. She emphasized the word ”quite,” suggesting her lack of clarity was a matter of refinement, not substance-of inches, not miles.
”My father, by the way, was a surgeon, so I learned about the human body firsthand as a young boy. We lived in a wing of the hospital.”
This was no help, either.
”You mother must have explained it to you,” he said. It was a question.
”Yes.” She saw that his cheeks had turned the color of rouge pots. Her own felt feverish. A match touched to either one of us would ignite, she thought.
”I believe the name for this part of the woman's body is the same in both languages-”
”Stop!” She nearly grazed his mouth with her hand. ”There is no need to say it. I'm sure I know to what you refer.”
She might retch if he named a part of herself she didn't recognize. Her brain switched on-she actually felt it engage inside her skull like a mouse scurrying in a wall-as she tried to recollect everything she'd read and heard of female anatomy. What had f.a.n.n.y said? There had been advice about menstrual rags, though f.a.n.n.y hadn't used those words, prompted by a collie b.i.t.c.h in heat trailing blood across the rug and hearth. f.a.n.n.y had called it ”a woman's time of the month.” Parthe had been in the room, too. After breakfast. f.a.n.n.y was embarra.s.sed and avoided looking at the girls. It was an agony to watch her mother squirm, so Flo had focused on the lime trees just leafing out chartreuse in the orchard.
As she replayed that morning in her mind, she watched the waves curling sh.o.r.eward, breaking into white freshets. Parthe had sat open-mouthed as a baby bird having food shoved down its craw. And then f.a.n.n.y had said those dreadful words. You will bleed every month. Parthe was twelve, Flo eleven, leggy little girls still playing with dolls. So you can have babies. f.a.n.n.y had repeated herself about days of blood and rinsing out the rags in cold water so the stain doesn't set. At first Parthe hadn't moved or made a sound. But then she smiled and nodded. Proud, pleased with herself. Not so Flo, who was silent, horrified, her whole body cold. Later, she was sure, they had laughed at her behind her back. f.a.n.n.y had told all the aunts what Flo had said when she finally spoke. Which was, ”Well, I'm not going to do it. I don't want any children, so I shan't have to.” f.a.n.n.y had regarded her like a cat with a half-dead mouse, with pure power and gratification. ”It isn't up to you. It happens to every woman.” Then f.a.n.n.y had guffawed and Parthe had mimicked her, their faces twisting up in horrid grins.
But what had any of that to do with Pere Issa's nail?
Gustave was staring at the sand. At a loss for words? Wondering at her strangeness? Regretting the entire conversation?
”Uterus,” she said. ”It's the uterus, isn't it?”
He took her hand as a big wave far out crashed silently at the limit of her vision. The sea droned on, its boring lesson. ”Ah, Rossignol. I am so glad we met. We shall be the greatest of friends.” Was he going to shake her hand to congratulate her for a correct answer? ”I've never known anyone quite like you,” he said.
Her feet were numb from sitting on them so long, and she felt woozy. A sickening heat proleptic of dizziness spread through her face and chest. Her monster was rousing itself, like a Cyclops in a cave. There was something unspeakably wrong with her, and everyone sensed it. He held her gaze, then looked away.
Like a criminal in the dock, she could barely utter the words. Guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty! I confess I know nothing. I confess my vanity of mind. ”Is that it?”
He was still holding her hand, which felt to her detached and dead. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. ”It's not exactly the word I had in mind.”
He was being polite, she knew, when, in fact, he pitied her. His kindness revolted her, or rather she found herself revolting to be the object of it. She was so humiliated she had to put her head down to avoid fainting. She heard herself whimper.
”Rossignol? Are you all right?”
She couldn't answer.
”I've upset you, I see, when all I wished was to give you a candid answer. When one travels, one learns strange things,” he said more lightly. ”One sees strange things. Rossignol?”
”Yes,” she whispered.
”Are you ill?”
”I don't know.” Her voice seemed to waft away.
He placed his hand flat upon her back. It was heavy and warm. ”Perhaps you've never heard of this organ.”
She exhaled and inhaled and felt the ground beneath her once more. Sand had worked its way into her stockings, and each time she moved it grated the flesh. ”I don't know.” If only she could skip the next few moments of her life, but they would pa.s.s in perfect agony, one second dragging after another like a bag of rocks as her childish ignorance was revealed. Her stomach felt like sour custard.
”In France, women are taught such things, but in England. Well, I've heard rumors that they aren't.”
If only she knew what he was talking about! Was it one thing or many?
His hand moved in circles on her back, as WEN's used to do when she fell and sc.r.a.ped her elbows and knees. It soothed her into a sort of trance. If she kept her eyes closed to aid the illusion, she could believe he was stroking her hair, her arm, the soles of her feet.
”I'm sorry your mother or sisters or aunts didn't educate you.”
She felt stupid beyond measure. Where was her reason, her logic? Where but deep in the well of her shame? And yet, when he soothed her, she cared a bit less. ”There are women who cannot bear children,” she tried. ”Likewise, perhaps not everyone has this . . . thing.”
”No, everyone has it.” The warm circles stopped. ”At least at birth. Though there are places in the world, some not far from here, where they cut this organ out to deprive the woman of her pleasure.”
”Oh, no. Oh, that's, oh, no.” She felt ill. As if her ears were stuffed with cotton wool, sounds were indistinct, the sea reduced to a faint murmur. She took a breath, then two more.
”Never mind about that.” His voice deepened. ”I am an idiot to mention it-”
”Perhaps mine has been cut out.” The thought breached her last defenses. She broke down weeping big plinking tears like an overwrought toddler.
”No, no. Definitely no! You are innocent, Rossignol. That's all.” He patted her back rapidly. ”I am sure you are complete. Only barbarians deprive their women of pleasure.”
Pleasure. She understood the word but was certain she'd never known the pleasure he spoke of. She had never felt any particular sensation there, only painless bleeding, the occasional itch. Perhaps she would never feel the happiness women were supposed to feel. She lifted her head and looked at him. ”Mais peut-etre-”
”No, I will not hear any 'buts.' You have been done a disservice, simply that. Everyone knows the English are terrible prudes.”
”I didn't know we are prudes.” She furrowed her brow. ”But I have often heard it said that the French are the opposite. Loose. Too amorous. Immoral,” she added, hoping it wouldn't offend him.
”b.o.l.l.o.c.ks! The French are worldlier. I heard of another English-woman your age who knew nothing of her own body, so you are not alone.” He put his arm around her and squeezed her in an avuncular hug. ”Promise me you will forget all this.”
She considered the idea and rejected it out of hand. ”No. I wish to know about it, if I can bear the added embarra.s.sment.” Actually, she didn't think she could be further embarra.s.sed. She'd never felt so unsure of herself, so ignorant, so reduced in stature in another's eyes. Yet, at the same time, safe.
”You must never be embarra.s.sed with me. Will you try?” The arm upon her shoulders went suddenly limp. He lowered it to his side. ”I said those same words to my darling Caroline, who died so young.”